Sweet Intoxication
by moonstruckmadcap
Summary: Must be 4/20 at the opera house, because Erik and Christine set aside all their drama for awhile and get blazed. Leroux-based with strong Kay influences. Rated M just to be safe for descriptions of drug use and light suggestive conversation? Sorry for the bad title and description.


Author's Note:  
This is just the silly result of the fact I thought about what would happen if Erik and Christine got stoned together. I didn't have a fever when I wrote it, but I do now that I'm posting it. Feel free to judge me if you want, but I hope you enjoy it. I had my boyfriend edit half of it, but the rest is only edited by myself, so I apologize for any glaring grammatical errors that I missed for some reason.  
As stated in the description, this is Leroux-based with some strong Kay influences, namely the mention of Erik's morphine addiction. (And I may have nicked the Kama Sutra comment from Kay? I have no idea, it's honestly been years since I read it and I can't remember. Also, if you're familiar with them, you might notice the line borrowed from a certain Dresden Doll's song, but that was done intentionally and mindfully). ANYway, this note I'm sure is boring you to death, if you're reading it at all, so, I hope you enjoy my first attempt at a Phantom fanfiction! 

It had been nearly two weeks. Nearly two weeks since I'd been taken from my dressing room down to the dark underbelly of the Opera, to the secret house that lie unbeknownst to all, separated from the rest of humanity by miles of Earth and the vast expanse of the underground lake. That lake was the point of my focus now, and I stared out at it from stony eyes, willing myself the courage to jump in, my lungs to give out , and my soul to rise up above and away from my prison.

A voice not quite like my own laughed bitterly at me from within my skull, "If I can't be with you, sweet Raoul, then at least I could be with my poor Papa...I can simply close my eyes, and take a few steps forward, and-"  
My eyes shot open. My left foot was hovering above the open water, my right foot just centimeters away from the edge.

"Foolish girl," I muttered to myself, backing away. "What good would it do? He would likely hear the splash when you fell in and come save you. Yes, that is exactly what would happen, he has ears like an English bloodhound. And then he'll lecture you on the dangers of drowning, how one shouldn't go near deep waters when they're unable to swim, and then he will ask you what were you doing out here in the first place, Christine? Were you hoping to kill yourself and escape from your poor, unhappy Erik, Christine? Silly Christine, you shall never leave here, Erik already told you! And then he will cry and scream curses to the Heavens! Oh God, I cannot bear to hear that sound again in my life!"

I came to realize that I was pacing back and forth, my hands clenched to my hair in frenzy, and nearly shouting to myself like a madwoman. Perhaps I was a madwoman, at this point. Perhaps the mad _man_ who held me here had finally sucked away the last remnants of my already faulty grasp on reality, and I was now just as mad as he was! So be it, then! I'd heard it said that lovers often begin to mimic each others' mannerisms subconsciously, once they've been married awhile, and this thought was met with another bitter, maniacal, little laugh, only this time clearly mine, and not merely in my head.  
I turned and walked back into the house like a damned woman entering the mouth of Hell. The long, dark hallway was empty. I passed the Louis-Philippe room on the left. This room seemed intended only for my use and my captor was never in there, nor did he ever enter it when I was, oddly enough for a man who'd deemed it within his moral code of conduct to kidnap a young woman and hold her in his home against her will for weeks on end! Thinking of this made the crazed fury that had overcome me outside start to rear its head once more, but I swallowed it down and continued my search through the house...Usually Erik would be playing his organ, feverishly working on his composition with no awareness of anything else in the world, but no music floated through the somber halls today...Nor did any of the cries or screams which I'd come to fear so greatly and knew to erupt from him when he was befallen by one of his seemingly uncontrollable fits of madness. No, strangely enough, no sounds at all could be heard in the house and I assumed Erik must have gone out. He did leave sometimes, never telling me where we was going, for how long he'd be gone, or allowing me to see when and how he left so as to not reveal any means of escape.  
As I turned the corner and approached the sitting room, however, I noticed something peculiar that showed me I wasn't alone in the house after all, despite the quiet...Soft, cloudy billows of what looked like smoke were floating from the doorway out into the hall. It wasn't enough smoke to warrant worry of a fire, but it was more than what usually came from a cigarette, and the aroma of it was quite different than any tobacco smoke I'd smelled previously...It was muskier, stronger, but not altogether unpleasant. This being the most interesting thing to happen in the past few days of my vexatious stay here at Erik's house, I entered the sitting room curiously in pursuit of the source of the smoke. I found my captor (once my "Angel of Music"), dressed in his usual evening attire, complete with black opera cloak and black mask, reclining on the large black leather sofa and holding a bizarre looking pipe in his hands. He lifted the mask slightly from his malformed lips so that he could blow out another stream of that dark, heavy smoke before he acknowledged my presence with an uncharacteristically languid sigh.  
"Hello, my dear Christine. Forgive me, I seem to have lost track of the time today. I entirely forgot about our lesson, but, ah well. Time is never at a deficit here anyway. Was that you going out to the lake that I heard earlier? You will catch a cold, going out there without a jacket..." Erik trailed off, his melodious voice sounding dreamier than usual. I noticed that his yellow eyes, usually unnervingly bright, had a slight reddish tinge to them.

"Erik, what is it that you're smoking out of there?" I asked him, gesturing towards the intricately-wrought pipe that he held.  
"This? This is cannabis, Christine. It's an ancient herb, mostly grown in the East. It is quite common in India and other parts of Asia where they've picked it up through trading. A wonderful plant, really. The old mystics claimed that it helped them open up psychic channels for communication with other realms. But while that is up to interpretation, there is no doubt about its analgesic properties and it certainly does give an excellent, albeit tame, feeling of euphoria. I've been saving this particular stash of it for years now. I'm quite surprised it's retained its potency. I believe I received it when working under the Sultan of Siam, long ago...Would you like to try some, Christine? You seem so very...tense."

It was true, my mind was still racing on the desperation and futility of my situation, as it had been outside, but now that was mixed with a surprising new sense of excited curiosity. This herb seemed to have put Erik into a pleasantly calm state of mind, and I was relieved enough just to be able to be in the same room with him without my insides quaking with terror. He didn't seem terrifying right now, a bit unsettling with his ghoulish face covered by a sheath of black cloth, and his funereal way of dressing , but I didn't fear for my safety at that moment and wondered now if even this slight uneasiness would melt away if I took up his offer to inhale some of that alluring smoke. I took a tentative step towards the sofa.  
"Are you sure it's alright?" I asked, much like a child who was about to break a rule but who wasn't used to stepping outside the lines. That description was fairly accurate, after all. Despite being a singer at the Opera, I knew I was still very much an ignorant child, and there were many things in this world I'd never experienced or had the courage to delve into. By now I was standing awkwardly by the sofa, and Erik gazed at me for a moment, his eyes not quite so piercing with their new reddish hue, before shifting into a sitting position to make room so I could sit next to him. I did, a little shakily, never having sat in such close proximity to him until now.  
"Of course, it's fine," Erik assured me, "Erik would never offer Christine anything he thought might bring her harm! You drink alcohol on occasion, and I would place cannabis in the same sphere as that. Besides, you're a grown woman. At least I'm fairly certain you are. How old are you, exactly?"  
"I'm 20," I told him, meekly.  
"Mon Dieu," he muttered, re-packing the little hollowed end of the pipe with some tiny bits of the green plant. "If I get any older, you may hack my wrists off with your choice of object, my dear."  
"What?"

"Nothing, Christine, nothing," Erik brushed the comment away and handed me the pipe, "Here, hold this part to your mouth. When I light the other end, start pulling in. The smoke will come up through that hose. Try to hold it in your lungs for a moment."  
Erik then lit a match and held it to the little end piece, and I did as he instructed, pulling the smoke into my lungs with a deep intake of breath. After a moment, he pulled his hand away, and I sputtered and choked out the dark cloud, coughing unattractively. My lungs felt as if they were on fire even though the smoke had felt like nothing when going in. Erik laughed at my choking. Normally, this would have annoyed me, but I was too disappointed from the fact that, aside from the burning sensation in my chest, I didn't feel anything, none of the euphoria that Erik had mentioned...  
"Did I not do it right? I don't feel any different," I said, once my coughing fit had subsided.  
"You did it right, my dear, you just took too big of a hit and couldn't hold it in. Here, try it again. Don't take in so much this time. You'll feel something."  
As we repeated the process a second time, I couldn't help but think of what Papa, or Mama Valerius, or even Raoul, would say if they could see me at this moment: smoking cannabis under the Opera house with a masked man of questionable sanity! Their sweet, innocent little Christine, partaking in drugs with a strange, older man after having skipped out on work for nearly two weeks to stay with him at his home. Whatever Mama and Raoul thought had become of me, I knew anything in their minds would never come close to reality. How my life had gotten so out of sorts even I couldn't tell at this point. As I exhaled the second time, however, (this time a smaller one and after having held it in for longer than the last), all thoughts were swept away with the sudden glorious feeling of heady bliss that seemed to have settled over my mind like a warm, comforting blanket.  
"Do you feel it now, Christine?" Erik asked happily, taking the pipe back from my hands to take another pull from it himself. He seemed to be enjoying the closeness of this interaction, or perhaps simply the fact that I wasn't quivering with nervousness or running away from him, despite the closeness. I nodded in response, and sat back in my seat, closing my eyes, resting my head lazily on the back of the sofa, and feeling truly comfortable for the first time since I'd found myself in this house. It felt sublime, simply to be able to float tranquilly within my own mind, without a care in the world for what was to come or what could or could not be done. I didn't feel like doing anything at all, right now, and understood why Erik had said he'd lost track of the time. Such a thing as time didn't even seem to matter at all! I felt I could spend eternity resting on this sofa, and only seconds before that would have seemed utterly ridiculous. It didn't last an eternity, unfortunately. After we'd passed the pipe back and forth as a few times, Erik and I both lay back serenely, watching tufts of the luxurious, inebriating smoke float about gracefully in the air before dissipating, and presently I became aware of a familiar twinge in my stomach.  
"I'm so hungry!" I exclaimed, as if I had come to some great discovery. Erik laughed again.  
"Cannabis does that," he said, and I could sense but not see a devilish grin on his face,"And it must be somewhere around dinnertime, by now, I'm sure. I shall go get you something to eat, my love." He rose to his feet and began to walk towards the door.  
"Aren't you hungry too?" I asked, twisting my neck somewhat to look over at him with eyes now presumably tinted with the same redness as his. I'm still not entirely sure myself why I cared, but under this ambrosial spell I felt a strange sense of dissociation from everything which perhaps awakened my ability to empathize more than I ever had previously with my companion-by-force. Erik paused in the doorway.  
"Erik has already eaten today. And would not subject Christine to watch the process, regardless." he said softly. But in my current mentally-elevated state I was apparently not satisfied with that answer.  
"Why, what do you mean "subject me to watch the process", that's ridiculous! You watch me eat. You all but stare at me while I do! It's unnerving! Why can we not eat together, like normal people do?" At this last part, I noticed Erik's eyes grew a bit wider, and he stood in the doorway looking into my face for a few moments before answering.  
"It's difficult to eat with the mask on," he finally admitted, in a quiet voice. I thought about it for a second, throwing my legs over the sofa and stretching my arms out above my head. I knew I probably looked a sight, stretching out like a contended house cat, but I still felt so heavenly and without a care in the world at that moment-even about my companion's gruesome face, I realized. I'd seen it before, in any case, and thought perhaps I could even begin to get more used to it if he didn't keep it constantly covered up.

"Take it off, then," I told him, lazily. But please, go get us some food! I'm absolutely starving! And afterwords, can we smoke some more of that cannabis? You were right, Erik, it's simply wonderful. I'm feeling better than I have in weeks!"  
"...Very well, if that's what you wish. I shall be back, presently. And of course we can. Erik is so pleased to see his Christine in good spirits again. You've been wandering these halls like a ghost these past few days, and I was beginning to wonder if I'd ever again see that light in your eyes. It's there now, a little more like a sunset than usual, perhaps...but it's there." with that he left the room, leaving me alone.  
I sat up in my seat once more and took in the room around me. The huge, grand pipe organ in the corner, the tall black bookshelves lining the walls, each filled to the brim with literature in all manner of different languages, the rug on the floor with it's beautiful, lush red and maroon patterns. I'd never noticed how intricate the design on it was until now. I'd never seen a rug quite like it, and I was still tracing along the vine-like patterns with my eyes when I heard Erik's footsteps re-approaching from the hallway. He entered with a gigantic silver platter in his hands, which was piled with food of all kinds. I was so hungry that I didn't care what I ate so long as it was edible, and reached out without even really looking when he placed the platter onto a table he'd pulled from beside the sofa to rest in front of me. Pulling a chair from the corner, Erik settled down directly across from me. What I'd grabbed had been a chicken wing, and I devoured it hungrily and reached out again for a piece of bread when I was finished. For a moment, I thought Erik might sit and stare me down through the holes in his mask while I ate alone, as usual, but after a few minutes, with one quick movement of his hand, he'd taken off the mask and set it down next to the platter on the table. I hardly even registered that his hideous death's head was now uncovered, however, because my eyes were still settled on the complex pattern of the rug.  
"Erik, where did this rug come from? It's beautiful! I've never seen anything like it!" I exclaimed, my mouth still rudely full of bread.  
Erik scoffed at my comment.

"Oh, that thing. A contribution to the home from the dear Daroga! That man has never been able to get over his sickening love of opulence, no matter what he may say otherwise. I swear, who else in the world has ever been jailed for years, banished from their homeland, and still somehow winds up with _too many_ Persian rugs? But yes, Christine, it is an object of beauty. One can't deny that. Lavishness for lavishness's sake! It's the Persian way, bred into the upper crust throughout generations, or so I've come to believe, from my experience there."  
I chewed my bread in silent repose and thought of the kind-faced old Persian man, who'd always been so cordial to me whenever we happened to run into each other at the Opera. Now that I knew the truth behind the Angel of Music and the Persian's mysterious connection to him from the past, it made a bit more sense to me why. It was almost nice to hear Erik speak of other people he knew and other places he'd been, to be reminded that he hadn't spent his whole lifetime as a specter roaming the forgotten corners of the Opera Garnier and secluded alone in this dungeon underground. It also made the situation all the more strange, however, considering that he'd not always lived like a recluse, away from the rest of humanity, and I couldn't help but feel my mind fill up with a million questions of what his life was like before, what exactly it was that he did for these great Shahs and Sultans of faraway lands...I didn't dare ask any of them, however, noting the bitter tone of voice he always adopted whenever making any mention of his past,and not wishing to break this fragile calmness that we currently held between us for the first time since I'd come to know him as an actual living person.

I noticed with slight disappointment that the effects of the plant were beginning to wear off. Erik must have noticed a similar feeling himself, because he replaced the mask over his face (had he even actually eaten anything? I hadn't seen him pick anything up, but then, I hadn't been paying much attention either..). He rose from his seat and came back to rest again next to me on the sofa, then reached over to the side table for the pipe and the little jewel-encrusted box that held the cannabis.  
"I gather what's left of this will last us both through the evening. No point in saving it any longer, now that it's already out, I think. Besides, I only brought it out in the first place because I've run out of m-" he seemed to catch himself before finishing his sentence.  
"Out of what?" I inquired, as he busied himself with packing the hollow part of the pipe again. It took him a moment to answer me, and I could tell he was wracking his brain for a way around doing so, but I was curious and not willing to let it rest.  
"Remember how I told you that cannabis gives a _tame_ feeling of euphoria?" he said, finally, "Well, Christine, as I'm sure you know, there are other plants which are not so tame. Poppies, for instance, will eat you alive, and they will do so while you lay in ecstasy, with a veil over your eyes, so that before you can even register what's happening and scream for help, there is already no hope for you, nothing left of the person you once were, nothing but a primal urge begging for more, for the veil to fall back down and save you from the knowledge of your own pitiful self-destruction...These are the ones you must make sure to stay away from, my love. As for me, the decisions and mistakes were made many years ago. Hell, I must have been around your age the first time I let that veil fall...And let us leave it at that."  
After he'd finished speaking, my mind's eye was struck by an image of Erik, my teacher turned captor, hunched over the keys of his grand organ, eyes shut for eternity and a syringe still held loosely in one, dead hand. I had the most terrifying feeling that I was gazing into a vision from the future, not simply from my imagination, and remembered what Erik had said about the mystics and their cannabis-fueled psychic travels into other dimensions of existence. I shuddered, and it wasn't from the cold.

Presently, he handed the pipe to me, and I took the long, skinny end piece into my mouth gratefully as Erik lit another match, willing the sweet, musky smoke to set my worried mind at ease once more. It did, much to my pleasure, and we once again sat together in peaceful silence, the only sound being the striking of the matches and the soft bubbling of the pipe as we indulged ourselves on the intoxicating smoke. Afterwords, while I relaxed again in the comforting haze, Erik rose and selected a book from one of the shelves. Retaking his seat, he opened the book and soon the room was filled with the symphonic cadence of his beautiful voice, as he read me poems aloud. One in particular, by Verlaine, struck me to the core with each word Erik read, 

"Votre âme est un paysage choisi  
Que vont charmant masques et bergamasques  
Jouant du luth et dansant et quasi  
Tristes sous leurs déguisements fantasques.

Tout en chantant sur le mode mineur  
L'amour vainqueur et la vie opportune  
Ils n'ont pas l'air de croire à leur bonheur  
Et leur chanson se mêle au clair de lune,

Au calme clair de lune triste et beau,  
Qui fait rêver les oiseaux dans les arbres  
Et sangloter d'extase les jets d'eau,  
Les grands jets d'eau sveltes parmi les marbres."

"That sounds like you," I said, when he had finished. Erik was amused by this.  
"I'm flattered by the thought, my dear, but unfortunately, even our friend Verlaine couldn't possibly write so poetic a description for the horror that has been my existence. No, my soul does not rest within the calm moonlight, but rather somewhere among the infinite black void that surrounds it, if it even exists at all."

"No," I replied smoothly, surprising even myself with the comfort I felt in conversing with him now, having been struck nearly dumb with absolute terror all the days I'd spent here so far. Right now, for some reason, it hurt me to hear him speak so lowly of himself, especially when I was sure he must've been feeling the same blissful high as I was. "It's not in either of those places. Your soul is in the music, Erik. It's only hard to see...because one can't see music, only hear it and feel it...But your soul is not lost in a void, I can hear it whenever you play or sing...it soars free wherever music sounds."  
"As does yours, my dear Christine..."  
A smile crossed my lips, then, the first real one in over a week.  
"Would you like me to sing for you, Mon Ange?" I hadn't called him this since the day before he took me through the mirror of my dressing room, and the look in his eyes upon being referred to as such again was queer and unreadable, and he rose imperially in his seat, crossing his arms together.  
"As your celestial voice coach, that is the _only_ thing I would ever like from you," he said, with a hint of sarcasm that showed me he was intending to be humorous.

"And as a man?" I heard myself inquire coyly, surprising myself again but alluding it to the cannabis...His red/yellow eyes peered at me, interested.  
"As a man?...Have you ever heard of the Kama Sutra? Bit of a far cry from Gounod."  
I hadn't heard of it, so fortunately I missed his point, and he chose not to elaborate. Instead of giving an answer, I fell into an A cappella rendition of the Jewel Aria. The haze over my mind seemed to lend well to the use of my voice, and I felt as if each note soared from my throat more effortlessly than ever before, the higher notes ringing forth with ease as if I were myself some kind of living bell. Despite whatever else Erik had done, I couldn't deny he'd done an excellent job crafting my voice over the last few months. Where I had once felt like a squawking sparrow with no real place on the Parisian stage, I was now a fearless nightingale, prepared to take flight and fill the winds and the Heavens with song. For now, though, this underground sitting room had to do. When the last note had settled and the aria was finished, I looked over at Erik. He'd been sitting with his eyes closed, floating along in his mind with each note of my song, and now he gave a contented sigh.  
"You truly do possess the most amazing instrument, Christine. It has brought me great pleasure, helping you to realize it. "

We sat like that together the remainder of the evening, smoking cannabis and relishing in the odd comfort we'd found together today thanks to it. When it was surely well into the nighttime, I deigned to ask Erik something that had been itching in the back of my skull all evening, but that I'd dared not voice aloud, for fear it might set him off. If he went off now, at least I could just escape to my room and go to sleep. Besides, I felt we were both too satiated and calm to argue at the moment, and now was likely the best time I'd ever find...  
"Erik...It has been almost two weeks, since you brought me down here. Will you ever let me leave? I would be so grateful to be able to sing again, on the stage, and hear the audience's applause..."  
"And to see your young man, as well, I assume?" was his cold reply  
"Erik, you already know that I've told Raoul to never speak to me or send me flowers again! How is it my fault that he hasn't listened to my request? Please, Erik, I swear to you that I will not betray you! I will continue to ignore Raoul in the cruelest way, if you would only let me go back up to the surface. Why spend so much time honing my craft if you never intended to let me use it?" I pleaded with him. In truth, even saying that I would be cruel to Raoul felt like a crime, but I felt I would say anything if it meant I'd be able to leave this house, to see the sunlight and the bustling, lively streets of Paris again...  
"Christine-"Erik began, but I cut him off with a new thought of my own.  
"Raoul is leaving, soon, regardless, Erik! He told me! In just two more months he's being shipped out on an expedition to the Arctic, and I will likely never see or hear from him again in my life!" Erik's eyes softened and he seemed quite pleased about this new information. Meanwhile, my own eyes stung with tears at the thought, and I turned my face away from his gaze so as not to make them obvious. Erik propped his head onto his hand thoughtfully, resting his skeletal arm on the arm of the sofa.  
"Perhaps...Perhaps, I have been being too hard on the young man. He was your childhood friend, after all, who hasn't seen you in years. Further, the lad has no clue that he's actually treading on the toes of a curmudgeonly old fiend who lives in the basement...and you are the most beautiful creature to ever grace this world—I really can't blame the Vicomte for at least trying his luck. Perhaps I should've been more fair to you both about the situation. I just couldn't bear the thought of some young, handsome fool spiriting you away from me...Forgive me, Christine. I should have had more trust in you." Erik rose from his seat and left the room without another word. After a few minutes, he returned holding a small wooden casket. From the casket he pulled out a long, skeleton key and handed it to me. "This," he explained, "Is the key to my house. It opens up the gate by the rue scribe, which leads to the underground lake. It also works on all the hidden doors that lead in and out of this place. I will show you where they all are before you leave, tomorrow."  
"You—you're letting me leave, tomorrow?" I breathed, hoping with all my might that this wasn't some sick joke or a dream, or a hallucination brought on by the smoke.  
"Yes. But only if you promise to return, Christine. If you promise to come back, every other week or so, at least, and if keep true to your promises to me, you may come and go as you wish. I will not keep you here against your will. However, by giving you this, I am also giving you the means to betray me to the police or the management, if you choose to do so. So, even while you are free, I will continue to keep a close eye on you. As will the Daroga, I'm sure. He always seems to be stalking about the Opera anyway. He's even worse than I am, poking about in everyone's business as if we're still in Mezanderan and he's still the Shah's personal mole...I've tried to tell him he should find some sort of hobby, but-" Erik spread his hands philosophically, "old habits just die hard, I suppose. Besides, The great booby has been pestering me since I brought you down here. He refuses to believe you're here with me and seems to think you're dead for some reason, as if I would murder the woman I love! Anyway, seeing that you're safe and coming here of your own free will should be enough to satisfy him. Simply bear in mind that we'll both be keeping a close watch. Also, while I understand that it may be difficult to avoid your young man altogether, you are forbidden from seeing him anywhere outside the Opera. No taking up his offers for dinner, no late-evening trysts together. You may catch up with the boy over the next two months before he ships out, but only under this roof. And-" he walked over to a bookshelf and pulled another, smaller casket from behind one of the books. From this one he took a much smaller object, which he now placed ceremoniously in my upturned palm. "You shall wear this ring. If ever I see you without it on your finger, I will assume that you've made your choice, and that your choice is to betray me. Please, Christine, be wise, and don't test me. Not many people have ever attempted to do so, but those who have did not meet with a pleasant fate. Be true and loyal to me, and I will ensure that all of your wildest dreams become reality. Allow your heart to be mine, and I will make sure that not a hair on your head will ever be harmed. You shall sleep here one more night, and then tomorrow I will show you the way out."  
In answer, I slipped the gold wedding band onto my ring finger.

"Th-thank you, Erik," I stuttered, my eyes focused on the golden band around my finger and my mind on the promise and commitment to one another that such a thing usually entailed. Erik sighed, and sat down once again on the sofa, his masked face buried in his hands.  
"Don't thank me, my dear...I deserve no thanks for what I've done...Just don't break my trust.."  
Though he'd used the word trust, I could tell, with the heaviness in which he uttered the word, that the meaning behind it was much greater than simple trust...and I silently cursed God despite myself for being so cruel as to tie this man's heart, so full of passion that I couldn't begin to understand and such a strong yearning for love, however elusive and outside his reach it had always been, to a foolish, silly little girl like me, who was so likely to drop it in her clumsiness and inexperience and scar him so much more than any physical pain ever had...This caused my head to reel, and I was the one who reached for the pipe this time. Erik watched me through his fingers, face still in his hands, while I broke the last bud of the cannabis into little pieces and packed them into the hollow part of the pipe, as I'd watched him do.  
"You're a natural at that already," he commented, with a little laugh. I smiled and handed the pipe to him. We passed it back and forth once again in silent fellowship until nothing but ashes remained of the little pieces of the heavenly plant. Now, I was feeling quite tired, and all the more probably because I knew now that a night's sleep was all that separated me from my freedom. With a foggy mind, I rose, bid Erik goodnight, and took my leave for the Louis-Philippe room, which I suppose was technically my room. As I made my way through the hall, I heard Erik begin to string a melodic rivulet of sound from his organ. I lay in bed for a long while, without sleeping but still fully relaxed and comfortable, still bobbing along in the calm waters of "tame euphoria", and thinking back on the events of the evening. For the first time, Erik and I had not only held actual conversation, but seemed to honestly enjoy each others' company, mostly due to the fact that I had not been overcome by fear...I wondered vaguely if, just maybe, with an infinite supply of cannabis, this relationship that Erik seemed so desperate to have together could possibly work...It wouldn't be normal, by any means, but under the cannabis's blanket I was at least able to converse with him, express empathy for him, and ignore the horrors of his face...However, this thought melted away as my mind began to drift off into sleep...The sad truth was, that surely, no one possessed enough cannabis in the world to make this strange passion play, built upon a foundation of lies and pain and the most heart-wrenching sorrow, work out well for either of us...not even the Sultan of Siam himself...


End file.
